It is conjectured by some that a person’s handwriting can give a glimpse into that person’s character. But I am a skeptic in this regard, because in my opinion, the handwriting of an individual is not a constant, but keeps on morphing as time goes by.
A case in point is your humble friend, who has seen his handwriting deteriorate over the past few decades, till now, in my fifth decade, it is nothing more than a painstaking, almost illegible scrawl- although, with the advent of the now ubiquitous personal computer and other sundry devices, the negative impact of this deterioration has been minimized, especially in official work. Because today, when I write a note on any file with my own hand, others find it rather difficult to ‘decry-pt’. Even filling simple financial documents like a cheque is a nightmare now, a stiff challenge, which is increasingly being left to my better half to handle, as bank people, on a few occasions, have raised doubts about the authenticity of my signature.
But before the readers start commiserating about the sad and agonizing state of my handwriting, I will share with them that this was not always the case. In the early years of school, I was the darling of my teachers because of my neat and clean handwriting, which made me the cynosure of my peers. Writing on four line copies, I would get full marks in English handwriting. The slide commenced from middle school onwards, when I shifted from writing with a pencil to writing with a ball pen, and the copy changed from one with four lines to that with two lines. But the hand was still steady, and teachers did not have any problem in reading my answer sheets, as was evident from the good grades I continued to get in my exams. But I am sure, that as I entered college and the university in the mid-eighties, the good professors would have become increasingly impatient in poring over my messy answer sheets, with scribbles galore.
All throughout, my father, a diligent and thorough gentleman, with a very precise and beautiful handwriting, kept counselling me to stem the rot, even as I secured a job in the public sector in 1991. He gently warned that it would adversely impact my prospects of growth in the corporate world, especially when this was the period when all office work was conducted on well-defined sheets of paper- which, in my case, were to be yellow pages. Before leaving for Bombay (as Mumbai was then called), I scoffed at Dad’s gentle, but consistent reprimands.
It was only when I took my first, tentative steps in the company did I realize that what Dad had been emphasizing over the years was not an iota away from the truth. I faced a mild, personal nudge from some bosses on this account, but others were not so kind, and their reaction bordered on outright contempt, reprimand and disapproval.
But Dad was an eternal optimist. He still harbored a strong wish to get my handwriting back on track, even at this stage, for which he purchased a book- ‘Techniques to improve your handwriting’. I was back in kindergarten. So, whenever I came home to Delhi for a break, he would insist that I sit with him, at least for some time, and practice on ways to improve my, by now abominable handwriting. But by this point, my mind, like that of all young men, was engrossed in finer things of life than improving my writing ability, which, I realized, was destined to be an exercise in futility. This cat and mouse game continued even after I got married in 1993. It was only after I became a father in 1995 did Dad finally bury his desire to get my handwriting improved to a decent level.
Amen!
Musings of a Delhi Boy 
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